Once Upon a Trial
by fmapreshwab
Summary: After the dungeon, John thought that coming home would be easy, he thought the worst was over. He was wrong. This story is the third of a trilogy, following "I Can't Lose You" and "Memoir of an Abduction". As always, rated for mild language.
1. Fights and Flights

A/N: This story is third in a set, beginning with "I Can't Lose You", middling with "Memoir of an Abduction", and ending with "Once Upon a Trial", which, as I hope you were already aware, you are reading now. Also, this story is somewhat a response to the completely reasonable point that Mary has had all of about two lines in both previous stories together. As ever, I own neither Holmes nor Watson, nor the little misses.

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><p>This story begins, I suppose, as the last ended: at home, yet not at ease.<p>

I could embark upon this narrative from many points: the arrest, which made its way into all the newspapers; the unbearable investigation, which seemed to last forever; any of the many visits made to the prison, each over too soon; or even the trial, which could have had its own account. But I believe the point in this particular story from which all the others flow, and thus the most appropriate point from which to jump in, as it were, would be the fight.

It had been some two weeks since the harrowing events of my last recounting, and my dear friend and I were well on the mend. The heavy bruises still lingered about my face, and they made Mary shudder to look at me. At first, I had been barely able to recognize my own face staring in horror back at me from the mirror. Now, though the swelling had died, I appeared absolutely jaundiced by the yellowed mar which enveloped my countenance.

I had been to see Holmes more often in the intervening weeks, more often than not on business. The stitches in his shoulder, where the bullet had entered, had been torn out no less than three times, and I had marched dutifully into his lair on three separate occasions to repair them. At first the explanations seemed reasonable, or at least what seemed to pass for reason where Holmes was concerned, but that was far too good to last.

He had refused from the outset to take any sort of rest from his work, and the first case upon which he had set himself had ended, as was so often the case, in hand-to-hand combat with a man who could have used the old boy as a toothpick. Of course I exaggerate, but not by as much as one might think. As Holmes grappled with the giant, his stitches tore which, to hear him tell the tale as I have, could have cost him his life had he not his formidable wits about him. He had used his good arm to remove his belt, used his belt as a lasso, latched on to a nearby chair, drug it to him, splintered it against the ground, and thrust the largest remaining stick of wood into the man's leg so quickly that, Holmes would say, had there been any witnesses to the act, they surely would have disbelieved it themselves. But of course all this left the man with his shoulder in a bleeding ruin, and, as quickly as he had set foot upon his own carpet, had called upon me.

Then things had begun to get far-fetched. The second urgent call came upon me, as so many had in the past, in the dead of night. I felt a certain sickening déjà vu as I opened the door to find one of Holmes's Baker Street Boys upon my doorstep. I looked at the boy, and he at me, and I went to gather my things, needing now not a word of explanation. I felt just slightly ludicrous, following the boy through the town with my medical kit in one hand and a loaded gun in the other, but there were few witnesses to the contradiction at that hour. We found our target wearing a mad grin and holding up a small key to the dim light of a streetlamp. He was standing outside a church, that mad, bold, brilliant look on his face. A priest sat handcuffed to the lamppost. The man, Holmes had informed me eagerly, was not, in fact, a priest at all, but a charlatan, an imposter, a conman. It seemed the man had been performing marriage ceremonies without license or permission from the governing body of the clergy, with which I will admit some lack of familiarity. He gestured broadly to the man, who only glared up at us in silence. He had tried to take the man unawares, he explained, posing as a groom to be, but the fraud had somehow sensed at his game, and attempted to flee. Rounding a corner, Holmes had been taken unawares as the false clergyman smashed a small table against his shoulder.

I noticed as he spoke the large, dark stain upon his shirt. It had been hidden by the oppressive darkness, but knowing why I had been called upon, I had at least the sense to look for it. Try as I might, though, I was unable to find any further sense in his story. "Holmes, why the devil would anyone impersonate a priest?" I will admit that in the lateness of the hour, my voice had a certain peevishness to it that only he could ever bring out in me.

Holmes looked down at his prisoner, who stared insolently back up to him. "Do you know, Watson, that some men are surprisingly uncooperative when they have been handcuffed to a lamppost? I must admit that I find the man's reticence to speak with me on the matter quite perplexing, especially when I do believe I've most of it solved already." He looked down at the man. "Do stop me if I have you wrong."

Holmes proceeded to tell me the story of Randall Young, a thief at the end of his twenties who had, some eighteen months ago, disappeared from the London underworld. Young Randall, it was said, was one of the up and coming crooks of the city, invincible and uncatchable. It was said that he was ruthless and heartless, and in fact there had been several deaths at the scenes of crimes attributed to him.

Scotland Yard had, some time ago, asked Holmes to give Mr. Young a bit of his attention, see if he couldn't track the lad down. Holmes had begun inquiries, and had indeed nearly caught the blackguard, until he had disappeared completely, not to be heard from until this very night. The story had an ending like a campfire tale, but Young hadn't once stopped Holmes, rapt though his attention was. "Now let me see. You knew someone was getting close, you knew you had to disappear." Holmes paused a moment, 'hmm'ing in thought. He looked up at the church, down at Randall, cuffed still to the lamppost. "Convenience."

"Beg pardon, sir?" Randall seemed as confused as I.

"You didn't choose the church. You were desperate for a hiding place, and they offered you some sort of crime of convenience."

The young man snorted. "There was a priest never showed up the day before I came passin' in. I was all up in black, and they mistook me for 'im. Old man came right up to me, told me I was late and that I had best get myself in back with the others. Fell right in with 'em, performing ceremonies by week's end. Rather got to likin' it, I'm sorry to say."

I looked up from Young and over to Holmes. "Shall we escort the young man to the Yard then?"

"And with all haste. We must have him behind bars before the sun rise."

"Why sunrise?" I asked, earning one of his more common looks of exasperation mixed with condescension.

"Watson, a priest being led into Scotland Yard is bound to raise at least questions, at most outrage. Imagine trying to answer those questions, Watson, telling the people of London that an unordained minister has been performing marriage ceremonies for a year and a half. Imaging the uproar such a situation would generate. Imagine the chaos." As he said this last, his eyes gleamed with his particular brand of madness. His eyes focused on me once again. "But of course first I shall need my wound tended."

We remained outside despite my protest, loathe as Holmes was to part with his prisoner. Apparently there are no good spots to chain a man up inside a church. As I worked, I found my eye inexorably drawn to the man sitting still by the side of the post. He seemed, now that I looked more closely, some passing familiar, and I wondered if I had ever seen one of the ceremonies he had performed. I wondered who in the wide city had been married without being married. I couldn't imagine how the church would go about fixing his little mess, but then it didn't concern me overmuch. But one thing did. "How did you know," I asked, glancing down at the man.

"Pardon?"

"How did you know my friend here wasn't just another groom, taking a look about at churches?" Holmes glared at me, but said nothing as I sewed him back together.

I could see the man's smile from the corner of my eye as he spoke. "I asked 'im bout the missus to be. Now, I seen dozens o' men hear that question, and ain't a one of 'em ever froze up like him there." He laughed, and Holmes glared at me anew.

It was actually rather surprising, given Holmes's not inconsiderable experience with lying to criminals. Perhaps it was because the man was possibly a true clergy member. Or perhaps Holmes could not, in any circumstance, picture himself a wife. It didn't matter overmuch, aside from being interesting to me, and so I let it drop. I finished my task, admonished Holmes for his recklessness, and sent the pair on their way to the Yard, setting myself off and back to my bed.

And upon the third occasion, I admit to some doubt as to the necessity of his actions. As I stepped into his room, I noticed the signs of recent activity, including the blood on the misplaced sofa. He told me, as I knelt before him to open my bag, that a fit of action had inspired him to change his surroundings, the logic being that it would help to adjust his thought processes. Mrs. Hudson, who had been doing her best upon my arrival to tend to him, gave an exclamation from her post in the corner, shaking her head. She had long been of the opinion that, no matter the danger he put to himself, he would be his own undoing. Never before had I been tempted to agree, but the evidence against him was beginning to stack. Now, dear reader, I will not put to paper that I suspected he had done this on purpose. But I will also not deny it. I stayed for some time to assure myself that he would not slip into shock from the loss of so much blood in such a short time, a concern which grew with each visit, then excused myself for the night.

I returned on this occurrence to find Mary in the sitting room, sitting in the light of a single lamp, waiting for me. I took in the scene within an instant, and the look on her face told me exactly what would come next.

"How is he, John?" she asked, her cold voice speaking of little concern.

I shook my head. "Foolish," I said in answer, as I often did when she asked after him. "He tore his stitches again. Moving the furniture, no less. The man will put himself to an early grave if he continues on this way." I set my bag down next to the door and prepared to go up to our room.

"John," she said, stopping me at the base of the stair. "How long will you continue to be at his beck and call?"

I could not see her face, but I imagined I knew what I would see, were I in a position to. It would be set in the recently familiar pattern of anger and distress. "I am not…Mary, the man tore his stitches. I am his doctor."

"And I am your wife. All I wish to know is when I will merit the fullness of your attention."

"You certainly have it now," I told her with, I will admit, a heavy touch of sourness to my voice. I stepped away from the staircase, sure in the knowledge that I would not be going to bed any time soon.

"When you married me, you swore to put me first in your life. I'm tired of having to fight for your attention!"

"When I married you, you said you loved who I was and what I did. This is it, Mary, this is what a doctor does. Morning, noon, night, if someone needs me, I'll be gone."

"This is not about your practice, John, you know that. This is about him."

"This can't be about him. I've barely seen him in the last weeks but to bandage him up!"

"Really? The nights you come home late from the office, all the time you spend away from our home, and you tell me you haven't been to see him?"

"And what if I have? If, on occasion, I choose to take a meal with him, or to spend an evening out, where is the harm? The man is my friend Mary."

"And I am your wife, John. Although, perhaps a man like yourself was never meant to marry." She stared hard at me, anger radiating from her.

"Mary, how can you say that?" I asked, moving toward her.

She jumped from the chair, avoiding my effort to calm her. "How could _you_, John? When Mrs. Hudson told me that you'd come back to Baker Street, after all the time you'd been gone, I could barely believe it. I rushed over to see you, only to hear you tell him that you were never meant—Edmund would have never treated me this way," she cried, as she turned and ran up the stairs, leaving me standing alone.

I had of course heard the name before, but never since we had been married had she ever mentioned him to me. I had always suspected that she held her life with me in comparison to what it might have been…I had always hoped I was being paranoid or silly. But now I knew. I would probably never measure up to Edmund, the fiancée who had been stolen away from her shortly before we met.

Her words had hit me like a physical blow, and I stood stock still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. As I stood there, I thought, of all things, what our neighbors would think. Our fights were occasionally of a volume and magnitude to command the attentions of our neighbors; I could see it plainly upon the faces I encountered the mornings following on my way through the town. Some judged me; some pitied me; some would even go so far as to attempt a manner commiseration, shaking their heads with some condescending, knowing look. It made me dread my morning trek to the office.

That was when I made up my mind. Mary needed time to clear her head, and I would give it to her. I knew she wouldn't be down the stairs before morning, and it wasn't as if she would miss me overmuch, not after all that.

I left her a note on the table beside the door. _Gone early to the office_, it said. It was only partially a lie.

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><p>It feels <em>so<em> great to be writing again! I've been putting this one together for a while, but I'm still softening out the edges, so this one may have a sketchy update schedule for a while. But fear not! There shall be more!


	2. The Aforementioned Arrest

A/N: This story is third in a set, beginning with "I Can't Lose You", middling with "Memoir of an Abduction", and ending with "Once Upon a Trial", which, as I hope you were already aware, you are reading now. Also, this story is somewhat a response to the completely reasonable point that Mary has had all of about two lines in both previous stories together. As ever, I own neither Holmes nor Watson, nor the little misses.

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><p>Today would be neither the first nor the last time I sought refuge in a place other than my home. Mary was a terribly independent woman, and she often needed the company of her own thoughts when she was upset. I had learned over the course of our thus far brief marriage when my presence would be advantageous, and when the better choice would be to make other arrangements for myself for a night or two.<p>

I walked the streets for some time this particular night before arriving at what I had always known would be my destination. The familiarity I felt with this place had begun to feel almost unsettling in recent days, as it was no longer my place of residence. Perhaps I did spend too much time here…. I shook my head, clearing the errant thought away.

Mrs. Hudson let me in without comment on the lateness of the hour, and I showed myself up the stairs. As I rose steadily toward the top landing, I became aware of a stench which grew worse the higher I climbed. He was experimenting again.

I sighed. I had told him not two hours ago that it was time for him to rest. He had lost entirely too much blood in his recent activities to be at it again so soon, but then I had never really entertained the notion that this might be the point at which he began to heed me. I smiled despite myself, secure in the knowledge that there truly were things in this wide and fast world that would never change.

As I conquered the final stair, I threw open the door, long since having decided to forgo certain courtesies upon my visits, and there, in the common room between the two private quarters, stood the inimitable Sherlock Holmes. "Your sleeve is on fire." He did not so much as look up.

"Yes, yes, be a good chap and put it out for me, Watson." He seemed almost bored with the idea of being ablaze, and was cloyingly nonchalant about my visit, besides.

"And what if I don't?" I asked, still waiting for him to look up from his work. "What if I allow the fire to swallow you whole?"

Finally he met my eye, a smile in his eyes if not his face. "Why, my dear Watson, then you would be deprived the pleasure of my company, and we wouldn't want that, no." He turned back to his work as I picked a coat from the floor to pat out the growing blaze that threatened to eat right through his shirt. As I beat the fire out, I peered over his shoulder, attempting a glance at whatever it was that seemed to have him so enthralled.

It seemed chemistry was the calling of the day. On the table over which he stood sat three beakers, each holding a liquid of a different color. With a small dropper, he was mixing all three into a test tube which stood alone on rack to the side. I stepped away from him, the fire out, and admonished him, "You know, you should be resting."

"Would you believe, doctor, that that is not the first time I have heard that very advice today? There was a fellow in this very flat some two hours ago, about your height and build, similar coloring, the most dreadful moustache, who gave me just the same counsel. You know, in the right light you could be brothers." I have often cited Holmes's sarcasm as something I found irksome, but on this occasion I could not have been gladder to hear one of his deadpan speeches. He reminded me of the old days.

"Yes, well, if you tear your stitches, do me the kindness of running to another doctor. I've repaired you enough for one day."

This caught his attention. He put down his beaker and turned to me, mischief in his eyes. "So not here professionally, then, dear doctor? I do wonder to what I might owe the privilege. Perhaps the lovely Mrs. Watson is visiting family, or…." The smile faded from his eye and I watched as he turned on me that most famous of tools, that which he had used upon every other person he had met in his life. I always felt wrong somehow when he looked at me that way, as though I were trying to hide something I could not conceal. His face fell. "You've had another fight," he surmised, his tone flat and disappointed.

He had determined such circumstances before, but this time I had been more cautious. I hadn't left home in any state of undress or hurry; I looked much the same as I had when I had left him not so very long ago. As was so often the case, his conclusion frustrated me. "Why in the world would you suggest something so—"

"Trousers," he said, cutting me off. He had turned back to his work with the chemicals, and spoke to me with his back turned. "Note the bottoms of your trouser legs, Watson. They are covered in the muck of the street. Not lightly, either. You've been out on something of a jaunt. Your lodgings are not so far from mine, and so I may conclude that you have walked some extra distance. You would never be running errands or any other such task at this hour, and knowing you as I do, I have an awareness of your affinity for pacing when you've been upset. When you left here, you were on your way home. I may therefore conclude that you have had a fight with your wife and have come to seek the refuge of the bachelor's life you once knew."

I hated him for being right, but no more than I usually did. "I'm not seeking refuge," I informed him pointedly. "Mary will need time to clear her head."

"And you are being nothing if not the obliging husband," Holmes finished dryly, stirring his concoction. He sprang up very suddenly, shoving the papers on the work table to the floor. He lifted the three beakers off of the table and shoved them into my grasp. He turned and busied about clearing off the rest of the table, to what end I could not imagine. "Whatever happens, Watson, you must not allow the benzoate fluoride to come into contact with the magnesium acetate." He continued to bustle about, test tube still in hand, held aloft above his head.

"Allow the what to contact the…." I trailed off, trying to remember the names he had used.

He turned to me abruptly. "Do not allow the liquid which is green to be mixed with that which is orange." He spoke slowly and clearly, as though I may have difficulty hearing. His eyes were condescending and were I not about to allow the very thing he had warned me against as the bottles in my arms tipped at dangerous angles, I would have been deeply angered. As it was, I remained annoyed with him and shuffled the bottles around to prevent any dangerous reaction.

Once he had what he must have felt to be a sizable clearing upon the table, he held his tube at arm's length and emptied the contents. The liquid, which was now a murky purple in color, bubbled for a moment against the wood of the table, then began to emit a hissing sound as it ate clean through the wood. Holmes laughed aloud as he watched, eyes wide and almost mad with satisfaction. "Watson, I've done it! I have proven that when measured correctly, the substances in your very arms can create one of the most destructive compounds known to man! I'll have revolutionized the science of—". He was interrupted by a shout from the next floor down. He peered through the hole he had created in the table, through again the one he had made in the floor, and down further to the face of Mrs. Hudson glaring back up at him. "All in the name of science, nanny!" he called down to her scowling face. He stepped hurriedly away from the hole to consult and addend his ever-growing collection of notes.

Once he had snapped shut the notebook he had been using, his eyes wandered once more over to the hole he had created in the floor. I could hear from my position the racket Mrs. Hudson was creating in going about cleaning whatever mess his compound had left below, and from the look of him, Holmes could hear it too. He seemed to be weighing his options, and for my part I hoped he would go to help sort things out himself, being as he was the cause of the trouble. Finally, his face cleared and a decision had been reached. He nudged a box out from under his desk with a toe and slid it across the floor to come to a stop perfectly centered above the hole in the floor. The noise stopped, and Holmes smiled to himself.

He seemed, in that moment, to remember my presence, and he turned his attention upon me as he rifled through more papers on his desk. "Watson, old boy, I assume you'll be making use of…." He paused, and I knew he had been about to refer to it as my room, which he must constantly have been reminding himself it no longer was. "The spare room," he finished.

"That I will, and I must again thank you for the hospitality, Holmes." I had attempted a cheerful disposition, even despite my trouble, but something in the man's demeanor shifted as I spoke.

He closed the notebook he had been flipping through and spoke with his back turned toward me. "Ah, yes, I am so glad you mention my…hospitality, doctor." He turned to face me, and I knew that for this moment, I had his full and undivided attention. It was a rare thing. "Watson," he began slowly, his face dark, "I regret to inform you that I can no longer serve as your refuge from the rigors of married life."

"My what?" I felt something cold take root in my gut. We had never before spoken of the oft coincidental timing of my visits and my arguments with Mary, and I felt that no good would come of it. To my mind, our system was a simple one, and best left unspoken.

"It seems to me, dear doctor, that lately I am allowed the pleasure of your visits only on the occasion that you wish to escape from your commitments for a night." It seemed my assessment of our current standing and his differed greatly. "I can serve as your safe harbor from obligation no longer, Watson. It pains me to say that you should spend this time at home, attempting to solve your problems, rather than running from them."

"I am not running from my problems, Holmes, nor would I. Do you know what happens when I leave you, leave this place? I go home. To my wife. We are able, having both been given time to think, to have a rational conversation about our points of view and to come to logical compromises, rather than shouting one another down until one of us is left without a voice. I come here merely because I can think of no better way to pass the time." Despite my protest, the truth of his words cut deeper than I am able to put to paper. "But what I find truly disconcerting is that, given your belief that my marriage is in some manner of danger, your first instinct is to put me out! Had it occurred to you that I may need a friend in whom to confide, someone with whom I feel comfortable sharing my trouble? Of course not. Holmes, I am greatly appreciative of your advice when the matter concerns one of your specialties; smoke ash, gun powder, burn patterns, the depravities of human nature. But, as a matter of courtesy, when it is down merely to subjects of true humanity, please do allow me to keep my own counsel."

His face remained nearly blank through my now shouting tirade, but in his eyes I saw something change, and I hated myself for the way I had spoken to him. But not nearly so much as I hated him for the manner in which he had spoken to me. "I am dreadfully sorry to have burdened you, Holmes. From this point forward, whenever I feel myself in need of a friend, I shall endeavor to remember to look elsewhere." I turned on my heel, stalked up the stairs to my former room, and slammed the door. I regretted saying it, I even felt that I knew some part of what Holmes had been trying to say, and that his intentions may even have been in proper order, but it was no matter now. It was done. I stalked across the room to the bed which stood where I had left it and fell face first to the mattress, telling myself that this would be the last time.

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><p>In the morning, I pulled a fresh change of clothes from the bag which I told myself I would have to stop keeping in his flat. I had awoken early, but the hours meant little in this situation. The only kindness I could afford myself would be not having to see him on my journey out the door, but for that I would need some manner of preparations.<p>

I waited to hear some sign of his movements, and at last was rewarded by the distant sound of a screeching violin. He would be in his own set of rooms for such an activity, I assured myself. Determined to show a confidence I did not feel, I gathered the last of my things and made my escape, walking tall through the doors. I heard the far door begin to creak open just as I cleared the threshold and began my trek down the stairs. I nodded my goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, declining her offer of a warm meal with which to break my fast. There was an air of finality to the slamming of the door behind me, and some rebellious piece of me cried out at the thought that I may never again pass through that particular door.

I stifled the feeling and marched like a good little soldier all the way down the street, having no idea where I was going, but feeling the need to move forward. One who does not move forward may only go back, and back was no option for me.

It was still early, far too much so to even entertain the idea of going to the office. I hadn't eaten yet, having felt the need to leave with all available haste the residence in which I had found myself. I refused to think of it as his, as that would invite the notion of him once more into my mind, and the memory of it was far too fresh to risk that. Looking up at the sky, I realized it would be raining soon, as often is the case in London. I had forgotten my umbrella.

I turned toward the small residence I shared with Mary, reasoning that she should have had long enough that we could at least occupy the same room for a time. Coming around the corner at the end of my short walk, something felt indefinably wrong. Even as it was the early morning, the neighborhood was a shade too quiet for my liking. I shrugged the feeling away, reasoning that in one way or another, the entire world was a bit off.

I entered our home through the unlocked front door, noting that I should speak with her about that as well. Ours was as safe a neighborhood as could be hoped, but there was still little excuse for not guarding oneself appropriately.

Usually at this hour, Mary would be preparing her morning meal and readying to leave for the home of the family for whom she was the governess. I expected to hear or at least smell the activity coming from our kitchen. But there was nothing. I reasoned that after such a late night, she may well still be abed, feminine sensibilities being what they are. I climbed the stairs to the room she and I shared, but still could find no trace of her.

I shrugged to myself, told myself that she must have gone early to work for the distraction of it. As I made my way down the stairs, I saw my note sat still on the table where I had left it. Something about that struck me as odd; I would have expected her to have disposed of it upon reading. As I was near the door anyway, I grabbed the post I had ignored on my way through the door.

Under the small stack of personal correspondence and collection notices that had become a daily sight, sat the day's news. It had become my little ritual over the course of my marriage to retreat into my news in the mornings, and Mary had made a good show of leaving me to it so long as I had a newspaper in my hand. I sat in my chair a moment, unfolding the paper out across my knees.

I scanned the headlines for anything of particular interest. My mind failed to stick at any one article, and so I glanced each over in turn. The parliament would be meeting to consider proposals on the latest set of introduced bills. The Thames had been rising steadily through the course of the heavy rains and would soon threaten some few residences built too close to the bank. The wife of some notable fellow or other had been arrested pending charges of murder. Scientists predicted that electricity would be a household utility within ten years. American ambassadors would be arriving in the city for the annual diplomatic corps meeting within the week.

I hesitate to admit, dear reader, just how long it took me to realize that one of these articles might hold more interest to me than the others, and even then it was in only a semi-professional sense of curiosity that drew my eye. The wife of a noted writer had been arrested in her home late the night before and would soon be brought up on charge of murder. Turning to the indicated page, I saw a heart-wrenchingly familiar face staring back up at me from the page.

I shook my head in disbelief, having no one to deny to aloud, and only myself to attempt to fool into believing that it was not Mary's face on the page at all, only some grand misunderstanding.

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><p>*dramatic sting*<p>

I beg patience, fair reader, as I am not in the habit of posting a story while I am still writing it. I post as chapters become complete, but inspiration is a fickle master.

In any event, what is Mary doing in jail? Who did she kill? Allegedly? And who will help her now? All this and more (hopefully!) in the next exciting installment of…Once Upon a Trial!

Also, for those of you just joining us from "Memoir of an Abduction", get it? Chemistry.


End file.
